


Akuro no Oka

by Crown_of_Winterthorne



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ancient Greek Religion & Lore Fusion, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Historical, Angst with a Happy Ending, Fluff and Angst, Genderfluid Akaashi Keiji, Japanese Mythology & Folklore, Love at First Sight, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-02
Updated: 2020-09-02
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:01:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26259094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crown_of_Winterthorne/pseuds/Crown_of_Winterthorne
Summary: Written in 2017 for the HQ Fantasy Zine.When the gods get bored tormenting their own pantheons, they start harassing others.Bokuto is a sword smith commissioned to create a sword fit for the gods. Unfortunately for him, it's due to a bet between Athena and Inari, and the gods aren't above sending their avatars to sway the odds. Things don't go quite as planned when Athena's favored owl falls in love with the smith.
Relationships: Akaashi Keiji/Bokuto Koutarou
Comments: 11
Kudos: 92





	Akuro no Oka

**Author's Note:**

> Title is based on the Dir en grey song "Akuro no Oka" (Acropolis on the Hill). The song and original PV heavily inspired my visuals and themes.

The owl sits just outside of the  _ kajiya _ , tucked into the comfortable fork of an old pine tree. He watches with large, unnaturally slate green eyes. He has been watching all morning.

The bladesmith is god-touched. That much is clear from his tousled black and white hair, his large golden eyes. The owl has seen numerous gods, demi-gods, beasts and blessed humans. He knows the look of a god’s favor when he sees it, no matter the pantheon. More importantly, this one’s gifts lay in more than his beauty.

The owl watches him forge a blade. It’s not  _ the _ blade, the one commissioned for Inari, but a good blade nonetheless. He has seen thousands of blades in his lifetime. Swords to vanquish Gorgons. A row of twelve Ithacan axes. Legion after legion of gladius and spear. 

There is a grace here, in the gentle curve of the blade. In the waving patterns upon the edge. In the fluid, focused strength of the smith. The owl’s goddess has never been so beautiful, though he values his life far too much to ever say so. Wise and generous, she’s still a goddess.

He could watch the smith for hours, entranced by his broad shoulders and even broader smile. But he’s finishing, handing off the blade to a tall, smiling man called Saru. The owl has come to know him as the bladesmith’s friend and polisher. The one who will give the sword a shining finish.

But the bladesmith, this iron-forged artist, is Bokuto Koutarou, the master of Fukurodani  _ Kajiya _ . The owl thinks with a name like that, he should have been favored by Athena instead of those sly foxes.

The owl is there to serve his goddess. For the first time in centuries, he doesn’t want to.

* * *

Koutarou is used to seeing strange things. He grew up on his grandmother’s tales of ghostly samurai and vengeful ghosts. He’s seen white foxes with more tails than any fox has a right to have and dancing cats with glittering, knowing eyes. He’s always attracted the strange and unusual. Even so, the young—woman? man?—noble who sits upon the hill is unlike anything Koutarou has ever seen. 

Their black hair is short and curled, crowned with delicate flowers and green leaves that Koutarou knows are not to be found anywhere in the city. They wear the courtly layers of a Heian lady, something that he’s never seen outside of drawings. Nor has he ever seen the owl and feather motif on a  _ kimono  _ before, but he doesn’t have any experience with the high-ranking ladies who might wear such things either. As he gets closer, Koutarou can see their grey-green eyes are painted with red. 

Stranger and stranger.

And beautiful.

He thinks, for a moment, that he sees aged stone pillars where he knows there should be red  _ torii  _ gates leading to Inari’s shrine. Then his vision clears, and there is only the green hill, vermillion gates, and the person whom Koutarou is increasingly sure is a  _ kami  _ of some sort.

It would be smarter to ignore them. Koutarou knows better than to invite divine trouble. Even if he’s wrong, approaching a high-born person would be stupid for one of his rank. It’s tantamount to suicide if they turn out to be a high-born lady.

And yet… His curiosity itches at the back of his skull. They’re so pretty. And also right in his path.

Koutarou debates between which course of action would be safer. He’s painfully aware that when it comes to the gods and spirits, sometimes there is no right answer. And sometimes, the choice is made for him.

“Bokuto-san.”

Their voice is musical. Soft, a little husky. It would have caught Koutarou’s attention even without the use of his name. He quite nearly falls on his face.

It would be safer to pretend he never heard, to continue on to the shrine, but the  _ kami  _ smiles at him, beckons with their sleeve, and Koutarou is lost. He scrambles up the hill to kneel in front of them, eyes wide as he takes in their face. The slate-green eyes, the pearlescent skin, the… feathers? There are cream and russet striped feathers nestled into the  _ kami’s  _ curls, tickling his long neck.

Koutarou is no longer just curious. He’s  _ enchanted _ . He knows that’s dangerous, but he can’t help himself.

Nor can he help the first thing that blurts out of his mouth. “Tell me your name! Please!”

They smile again, and oh, what Koutarou wouldn’t do to see that smile forever. Their head tips to one side, birdlike, as if considering an answer. As if no one has ever asked before. 

“Akaashi. You may call me Akaashi.”

* * *

“You interfered.”

The owl feels his feathers ruffle in irritation. He turns his head to look at the white foxes—a matched pair of brothers he knows all too well. They’re perched on his branch as if it’s not unusual for foxes to climb trees.

“I have not interfered,” the owl tells them blandly. “I wanted to meet him.”

“You’re distracting him.”

“If I wanted to distract him, Osamu-kun, I would not be in this tree right now.” There’s venom in his polite words, the kind he learned among gods more dangerous and petty than these pets of Inari. “He’s not even begun work on Inari’s blade.”

“He never will if you keep showin’ your face.” That’s Atsumu.

“Bokuto-san has a stronger work ethic than that,” the owl replies, turning back to face the shop and settling his feathers as if he’d never been bothered. “He’ll make Inari’s sword and it will be beautiful. Just not as beautiful as Perseus’  _ harpe _ .”

He hears Atsumu crouch behind him. He has time to sigh, to wish he could roll his eyes before sharply turning with wings spread and feathers puffed, catching Atsumu mid-pounce. The fox nearly falls off the branch in his surprise. Behind him, Osamu just shakes his head, exasperated.

Atsumu growls. “We can play this game too, Akaashi. If you can interfere, so will we.”

* * *

The grass feels cool after working in the heat of the forge all morning. Koutarou flops down with a heavy exhale, arms and legs spread out theatrically. Komi and Sarukui sit beside him with amused expressions and open their lunches.

“You’re being overdramatic,” Komi tells him.

“If I can’t make a knife without it breaking, then how am I gonna make anything worthy of Inari? Konoha should’ve just asked Sakusa,” Koutarou grumbles, thinking of the fine swords he’s seen the governor and his sons wear. “He only asked us because we’re his friends.”

Komi sighs and shares a look with Sarukui. Koutarou knows that look. It’s the  _ “Do you want to say it, or should I?” _ look.

Saru says it. “Bokuto, you’re not competing with Sakusa, and Konoha would never commission us just because we’re his friends.” 

Komi adds, “He asked us because we’re the best in the prefecture.” 

“Easy for you to say,” Koutarou glares up at the sky. “You’re a better metalsmith than Komori.”

“Hell, yeah, I am. And I’m at Fukurodani,” he says, gesturing to their humble little building. “Not Sakusa’s  _ kajiya _ .”

It’s not enough to make Koutarou feel better. Not really. But he appreciates the effort.

* * *

The sun has set by the time Akaashi sees Bokuto climbing the pathway up the hill. The sky is lingering shades of pink and purple, stars flickering to life. Akaashi picks out familiar patterns: Cassiopeia, Cygnus, Heracles. He wonders what stories this sky has and if Bokuto knows them.

Akaashi wears fewer layers today—a simple  _ kosode _ and an owl-patterned  _ uchikake _ in shades of green. It’s far too hot for more. He’s reluctant to wear a shorter  _ kimono  _ and leggings like Bokuto does. He likes the way he can hide beneath the courtly silks, the way he feels wrapped up and safe.

The feathers on the back of Akaashi’s neck prickle pleasantly as Bokuto crests the hill, his white hair glowing in the fading sunlight. He looks tired, but he smiles brilliantly when he sees Akaashi waiting for him.

“Akaashi!” 

The way Bokuto says the name is endearing, as if he hadn’t been sure that Akaashi would meet him as promised. 

Akaashi hides a smile behind his sleeve and beckons to him. “Hello, Bokuto-san.”

“You look different tonight—but not in a bad way!” Bokuto corrects himself as he sinks to his knees. “Just… y’know. Not as formal.”

“Do you like it?” Akaashi asks, uncertain. 

“Yeah! I mean, yeah,” Bokuto says, visibly restraining his enthusiasm. “I’ve never seen owl patterns before. They’re pretty.”

Even by the dying light, Akaashi can see the blush on Bokuto’s cheeks. His own heat up too. It’s been decades since a human has caught his interest. Even longer since one flattered him without knowing who he is. Akaashi wonders if Bokuto is being friendly or or if this is human courting behavior. He finds himself hoping for both.

Lighting the lantern at his side, Akaashi dispels the lengthening shadows. “You look tired, Bokuto-san. Are you hungry?”

Bokuto seems pleasantly surprised by the idea of an impromptu picnic and he eyes the lacquered box beside the lantern. “I… yeah, I am. Both, actually. Tired. And hungry.”

Akaashi presents food that he knows will be both familiar and new: fish and rice, but also lamb, olives and figs. Bokuto’s already wide eyes grow larger with every foreign item. Akaashi is happy that he’s the one to share this with him.

“Tell me about your day, Bokuto-san,” Akaashi says softly, as if he hadn’t watched from his pine tree.

He’d seen the broken and warped blades, the growing frustration as Bokuto sulked and snapped at Saru and Komiyan. When his anger finally faded, it left behind a resigned sort of sadness. It lingers in his eyes even now. Akaashi doesn’t like it.

“You don’t wanna hear about my day,” Bokuto says, ducking his head. He seems… diminished. Embarrassed, and greatly unlike the man Akaashi has spent his days watching. 

“Of course I do.” 

“It’s just…” Bokuto sighs, running a hand through his hair, “I have a really important client and I’m not good enough.”

“Did they say that?”

“No, but… I know I’m capable of more,” he says, picking at a piece of honey-soaked pastry. He tastes it cautiously, blinks, then devours the entire piece. “Today, I couldn’t make anything I’d sell to a butcher, let alone present to a god.”

“A god?” Akaashi says, feigning ignorance.

“My friend is a priest at Inari’s shrine. Inari came to him and requested that he have a sword made. The finest sword in the world, better than Masamune could make, better than any god could make.” Bokuto shakes his head and drinks the plum wine Akaashi pours for him. “I don’t know why Konoha asked me. I’m not  _ Sakusa _ .”

Sakusa. Akaashi heard that name earlier. He wishes he could tell Bokuto that it was Inari themself who chose him, Inari who bet Athena that Bokuto could craft a finer blade than one created by any foreign god. 

“No,” Akaashi agrees. “You’re Bokuto Koutarou and it’s you who was chosen. No one else.”

He shouldn’t be encouraging Bokuto. He’s supposed to make sure Bokuto  _ doesn’t _ forge a finer sword than Athena’s. It would be safer if he lost—Akaashi is all too familiar with his goddess’ pride—but he can’t bear the dejected slump to Bokuto’s shoulders.

And when he smiles, Akaashi can’t regret it. It lights up Bokuto’s entire face. He sits up straighter, rolling his wide shoulders back and puffing up his chest. It would be comical if it wasn’t so cute. 

Those damn foxes should thank him, really. Because Akaashi is going to get himself plucked like a chicken if he doesn’t tread carefully.

* * *

Koutarou trusts his shop to create something beautiful together without him hovering, but he can’t help worrying. He has two new apprentices—foxy-eyed twins—to fire the forge while he folds the hot iron, welding hard steel with softer. Koutarou is thankful that they don’t need much guidance, but he often feels the weight of their eyes upon him. It’s unnerving.

Seeing Akaashi each evening has become a ritual he looks forward to. It seems like the only time he can relax. Sometimes there is food. More often they simply watch the sunset over the town and talk quietly.

Akaashi asks about his day and listens intently to his stories. They seem particularly amused when Bokuto tells them about the little red-legged owl he discovered roosting in the tree outside the shop. Koutarou still isn’t quite sure who Akaashi is, but he stopped caring the first time Akaashi let him rest his head on their lap and combed long fingers through his hair until he slept.

Koutarou woke in his own bed the next morning. He should have been frightened. Instead he was only disappointed that Akaashi hadn’t stayed.

He makes plans for Inari’s sword. He tells Komi of his ideas for the guard and other metalwork: ivory foxes set with jewels, golden fittings bearing auspicious symbols. The scabbard will be just as elaborate, painted with autumn flowers. 

Komi is hesitant. “Don’t you think you’re overdoing it?”

“... No?”

“It’s just… it feels like something some rich merchant would want because it fits their idea of what a god would want.” Komi scratches at the back of his head, where his hair is cropped close. “Our style is clean and strong. Simple.”

“But it has to be better than that. I can’t give Inari a plain sword!” he protests.

“Bokuto, you have never made a plain sword in your life,” Komi says as he rolls his eyes. “Hey, Miya One and Two, come over here a second.”

“Komiyaaan—”

Komi ignores him and addresses the twins instead. “What do you think Konoha would want more? A fancy piece of decoration or a blade that actually looks like it came from Fukurodani  _ Kajiya _ ?”

“I’m sure that’s not our place to say, Komi-sensei,” Osamu demurs. Koutarou is grateful. He doesn’t usually stand for the hierarchy of master and apprentice, but he’s already doubting himself and doesn’t need more reasons for concern.

Atsumu, of course, isn’t as tactful as his brother. “Swords are about function, not looking pretty. This the one for Inari?”

“Yes,” Koutarou says slowly, cautiously, as if Atsumu is about to spring a trap.

“The shrine is pretty simple. So’s Inari. You know how agricultural deities are,” he shrugs. “’Sides, good fortune doesn’t always mean wealth.”

He has a point. And Komi drives it home with, “I told you so.”

* * *

“The truest offerings come from the heart, Bokuto-san,” Akaashi says after Bokuto relays the day’s events.

“But I’m not offering it. I’m only the bladesmith.”

“Isn’t it an offering?” he asks. “It’s a sacrifice of your own sweat and blood. You offer a little piece of your soul with every sword you make.”

“I guess that’s true?” Bokuto seems unhappy despite the encouragement. 

“Bokuto-san,” Akaashi says, holding his hands out. He gives him a look, patiently waiting for the smith to place his hands into his upturned palms. When Bokuto does, Akaashi folds his long fingers around them. Studies them. They’re callused and scarred, all of the hair singed away up to mid-forearm. 

Bokuto stares at the ground, biting his lower lip and blushing slightly. 

“There is beauty in the simple things, Bokuto-san,” Akaashi tells him, tracing soft fingertips over an old burn scar. “Tell me about the very first time you were allowed to make a blade on your own.”

“I wasn’t allowed,” Bokuto chuckles with an embarrassed sound. “The first time, I mean.”

“Oh?”

“It was my father’s shop before it became mine. He made beautiful swords.” Bokuto smiles, glancing at Akaashi. “Before he died, he even made one for the  _ shogun _ . He was almost blind, but it was still the finest thing he’d ever made. When I was a kid, I wanted to be just like him. I’d spent my whole life in that shop, but being an apprentice was  _ boring _ . All the worst chores, the least important tasks… I wanted to make a sword!

“So… one day when Father was away on business and everyone else had gone home, I thought I’d make a knife to surprise him. Show him that I deserved to do more than sweep up and keep the forge hot.” Bokuto shakes his head at the memory. “The iron that we use is special, you know?  _ Tamahagane  _ is expensive and there’s a certain way to fold it together. I thought I knew what I was doing. I’d watched my father do it thousands of times.”

Akaashi nods. He suspects where this is going, but Bokuto needs to tell it. 

“I didn’t realize that he made it look easy because he had  _ done _ it thousands of times. No matter what I did, I couldn’t get the metal into the shape I wanted. I couldn’t make the layers without leaving gaps. I didn’t know how hot to get the iron, how hard I needed to strike it. I kept going, because I was stubborn, but it was hideous and I wasted good iron to make it. So I threw it into the scrap pile and hoped Father would never find it. Of course he did.”

“Was he angry?”

“Worse. Disappointed.” Bokuto draws his hands out of Akaashi’s to run through his hair. He does it so many times that it begins to stick up in places, like an owl. He gives a sigh and a sad smile. “Then he showed me how to do it right. We made a new knife together. When I was finally allowed to make a blade by myself, I made a  _ wakizashi  _ to match. Father kept them both until he died last year.”

Akaashi smiles back. Humans are such miraculous creatures. There is so much pride and love in Bokuto when he speaks of his father. This is what he needs to offer Inari, not fancy jewels and elaborate scabbards.

Akaashi tells him this, even as he feels the heat of a Mediterranean night at the back of his neck and scents olive trees on the breeze.

* * *

Koutarou begins to forge a new sword. Konoha does the required blessings and purifications, though he plainly thinks Koutarou has lost his mind, starting over when he doesn’t have a plan. Koutarou doesn’t mind. He’s going to go with what feels right. He’s going to make a sword worthy of his name. His father’s name.

It’s this thought he carries each evening, heart light as he climbs Inari’s hill. No matter how his body aches, or how tired he is, his spirit always lifts as soon as Akaashi comes into view. Koutarou always pauses, allowing himself to take a moment to admire his otherworldly friend.

This night, however, the the expression on Akaashi’s face is one that Koutarou is not accustomed to seeing. They seem to be having a conversation with someone he can’t see, and it clearly isn’t a pleasant conversation. Akaashi is kneeling, head bowed in shame as they quietly protest. Koutarou doesn’t recognize the language.

He frowns, and it’s only a deeply ingrained sense of  _ “don’t fuck with the gods” _ that keeps him from running to Akaashi’s side. Koutarou even takes a step back when he finally sees her, the tall, foreign woman with the aquiline nose and thick brown curls crowned with golden leaves. She wears a white sheath beneath a heavily embroidered mantle, its collar gilded in gold and set with pearls and other precious stones. It’s nothing like Koutarou has ever seen before.  _ She  _ is nothing like he’s ever seen.

She looks at him, pins him into place. Koutarou feels his heart in his throat. His chest constricts. Her eyes are the same grey-green as Akaashi’s, but they are so much colder. She says something sharp to Akaashi, who nods. Koutarou sees the white pillars behind her, wavering in the twilight. With one last look at him, she disappears into the ruins, leaving Akaashi and the  _ torii  _ gates behind.

“’Kaashi?” Koutarou takes an uncertain step forward. He’s never seen Akaashi look so miserable. Frightened. They hesitate, then hold their hands out, pleading.

“Bokuto-san…”

Koutarou rushes forward, dropping to his knees and taking Akaashi into his arms. He can’t promise that it will be alright—trouble with the gods is something he can’t protect anyone from—but he won’t let Akaashi be alone. He asks about the woman, but Akaashi won’t answer, just buries himself into Koutarou’s embrace. He strokes their hair, murmuring soft words meant to comfort, and pushes aside his worries and questions. All that matters is Akaashi.

* * *

Akaashi wakes in Bokuto’s bed. Beside him, the bladesmith sleeps on his back, one arm thrown out carelessly, the other trapped beneath Akaashi. He looks peaceful. Akaashi traces his fingers along his jaw, his cheeks, his nose. He wants to commit this man to memory and hold it against the lonely nights to come.

With a lingering, barely-there kiss to Bokuto’s temple, Akaashi rises from the futon and wraps himself in his robes. The crown of olive leaves and flowers is left on Bokuto’s chest as a farewell. It breaks his heart to leave, but Athena’s orders were clear: he is a watcher only.

And so he watches. He watches from his pine tree as Bokuto wakes without him. Watches as he searches the house and  _ kajiya  _ for Akaashi, clutching the diadem to his heart. He has to fly away when Bokuto calls his name until it is nearly unrecognizable with unshed tears.

It is days before he can return. Bokuto is devoid of the life and energy Akaashi has come to love. With his silence comes a cloud that hangs over the whole  _ kajiya _ . Akaashi can only watch, no matter how much he wants to fling himself from the branch and land, fully human, in Bokuto’s arms. Atsumu sees him hiding among the foliage and Akaashi is certain that the fox truly hates him now. Osamu only looks at him with pity.

Akaashi isn’t sure which is worse. 

* * *

Koutarou thinks about Akaashi constantly. 

He has a plan now. If an offering is a gift of the heart, Koutarou decides, then surely Inari will be pleased by a sword inspired by the one he loved.  _ Loves _ . For all of the pain he felt when Akaashi disappeared, Koutarou still loves them. He knows it isn’t wise. Knows that he should move on. Love affairs between mortals and divine beings never end well and it can only break his heart more to forge this sword with Akaashi in mind. And yet he thinks it might be the most beautiful, honest thing he has ever created.

Komi and Sarukui go along with him, putting their faith in Koutarou the way they have for years. Even the twins seem impressed by his new determination.

They are less impressed when they realize Koutarou wants an owl motif on the guard. Komi is amused by their indignation but agrees that Inari might prefer the foxes. Koutarou compromises; there will be one of each. The  _ menuki _ figures beneath the silken wrappings will be flowers and leaves bundled with sheaves of rice. Komi is doubtful when Koutarou draws the flowers he wants. 

“Those don’t exist, Bokuto.”

“They do!” he insists. “They’re just… really rare. If I bring you some, can you mimic them?”

“Of course I can, but I’m telling you, I’ve never seen these flowers before.”

Koutarou doesn’t argue. He knows better. The crown Akaashi left behind is dried and carefully preserved in a drawer. When he gives it to Komi the next day, he doesn’t answer his friend’s questions about the origin. Eventually he stops asking.

The days grow shorter. Cooler. As Bokuto forges Inari’s blade, he imagines the curves of Akaashi’s shoulders, the sweep of their long neck. When he sees the owl in the tree outside, he’s reminded of the feathers in their hair. He wonders if it’s possible to mimic feathers in the blade’s edge. If he could use the strange green of Akaashi’s eyes for the wrappings rather than red. Sarukui talks him out of both ideas. Koutarou thinks it’s probably for the best.

He goes to the hill often. At dawn, at twilight, in the in-between hours where the veil between worlds is thin. Sometimes he sees the owl, as if it’s following him. He glimpses a pair of foxes once, strange and ghostly white in the first snowfall of the season. 

He doesn’t see Akaashi.

* * *

It is, Akaashi thinks with pride, a beautiful sword.

Athena agrees. He can feel her vibrate with jealousy from his perch upon her shoulder. He would hide in the eaves of Inari’s shrine, but that would only make things worse. She sneers down at Inari and their foxes. Their face is youthful, androgynous. Amused. 

Konoha presents the sword. If the priest is fazed by the presence of gods and their animal messengers, he doesn’t show it. He does, however, slip out of the hall as quickly as manners permit. Akaashi longs to follow.

“This is not a sword finer than the  _ harpe  _ Hephaestus forged for Perseus.” Athena lifts her chin, places her hand on the pommel of the sword at her side.

Inari raises a brow at that. “Perhaps we should allow Saint Dunstan or the  _ Trí Dée Dána  _ to judge that, yes? You seem biased.”

“As if you’re not.”

“I  _ should  _ be offended, Lady Athena,” they say, studying the beautiful hilt and guard that Komi made. “There are owls and olive leaves on my sword.” 

“ _ What _ .” Her tone is ice-cold and flat. Akaashi wants to flee, but his wings feel too heavy. 

Athena grabs the sword from Inari, sees the scene playing out on the guard: an ivory fox at the foot of a pine tree, where an enameled owl roosts. It has sleepy jade eyes.

One moment Akaashi is taking flight, the next he’s on the ground, forced to human form in a flurry of feathers and silken robes. “Goddess, please—”

It’s the twins who step in, flashing into human form and putting themselves between Athena and Akaashi. He recognizes Atsumu’s growl, but it’s Osamu who speaks.

“Bokuto-sensei made a sword fit for a god,” he says. “That was the bet, correct?”

“The owl is no more a god than you are, little fox.”

“We serve as avatars. That makes us gods in the eyes of humans.”

“He’s not wrong,” Inari says, “and as the god in question, I would consider it a worthy gift. Owls, I believe, are important to Fukurodani  _ Kajiya _ ?”

The god asks this as if unaware of the translation. Of Bokuto’s very name.

“Owls are in Bokuto-sensei’s family crest,” Osamu confirms.

“Then I approve of this offering,” Inari smiles up at Athena, daring her to argue. She cannot, and Akaashi knows that although Bokuto won’t face her wrath, he will. Inari cannot protect them both.

“As you wish, fox,” Athena says, turning her gaze upon the twins and Akaashi. “I still insist you forfeit. Your pets cheated by helping.”

“As yours did by trying to distract Bokuto-kun.”

The goddess moves the twins aside to drag Akaashi onto his knees, snarling, “Not that he did  _ that _ to my benefit.”

“Goddess, please,” he tries again. “I never intended—”

“You were supposed to make sure he lost! Not become his muse!”

“’Kaashi?”

Drawn by their voices, Bokuto stands in the doorway, wearing formal clothing and a hurt expression.

“Bokuto-san…” Akaashi feels his heart break. “It’s not…”

“Not true? Don’t lie to me. I heard what she said.”

“I never wanted you to fail!” Akaashi cries out, no longer caring for himself. He’s going to be punished, and nothing Athena can do will be worse than Bokuto’s hatred. “I  _ wasn’t _ supposed to interfere. I was only supposed to watch, but you… you were… are… important to me.”

“... I know.”

Akaashi looks up, hope flickering in his chest.

“You encouraged me and made me feel invincible. I don’t… I don’t know what’s going on here, Akaashi, but if I passed some kind of test or whatever… it’s only because of you.” Bokuto smiles sadly. “Why did you leave me?”

There are tears rolling down Akaashi’s cheeks. Bokuto has both damned and saved him with those words. “To protect you, Bokuto-san.”

Then there is only pain and feathers, and the return to a home that is no longer his own.

* * *

Koutarou leans his head against the pine where Akaashi used to roost. He realizes now that the green-eyed owl was his… guardian? Friend?  _ Lover? _ There are no words to describe what Akaashi is to him. Not that it matters. He hasn’t seen Akaashi in either form for months now.

He closes his eyes and tries not to think, tries not to remember, but Koutarou can’t banish Akaashi from his thoughts. The plum trees are starting to bloom and it reminds him of the wine they shared. The memory leaves him lonely, leaves him wondering about Akaashi. Worrying.

The goddess had seemed  _ really _ angry.

“Bokuto-sensei,” Osamu says quietly and Koutarou slits his eyes open. “Sensei, perhaps you should take a break. Leave the shop for the afternoon.”

“It keeps me busy,” he says shaking his head. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not. Inari-sama asked my brother and I to stay and help you, so I’m telling you. Go for a walk. Watch the sunset on the hill.”

Koutarou levels a suspicious look at him. “Why?”

“Please. Trust me.”

If it were Atsumu, Koutarou would ignore him, but there’s something honest, almost imploring in Osamu’s eyes. He rises to his feet and nods. Komi and Sarukui can take care of the shop without him.

He wanders the town, putting together a picnic without realizing it. There’s too much food, but he takes it with him anyway, heading up the hill where his heart remains. Whatever hope he’d been clinging to vanishes when he sees that no one is there waiting.

It had been a childish hope.

He drops onto the ground, sighing into his hands.

“Go away,” he tells the white fox that slips up the path. It glows pink under the sunset, its eyes red and clever. Koutarou isn’t sure which twin it is, but he has no patience for either. 

“Bokuto-kun.” It’s Inari, their voice quiet as fur gives way to white and red silks. They wave away Koutarou’s apologies and prostration. “My twins have reminded me, dear swordsmith, that you are owed a reward for winning my little bet with the Greek.”

“I… won?”

They smile, baring sharp canines. “Indeed. Athena complained to six different gods and patrons of blacksmithing, but in the end it was her own sisters who declared you the winner. Love, it seems, can indeed conquer all.”

“What?” Koutarou is confused. He knows nothing of foreign gods beyond that one took Akaashi away from him. Bets and petty squabbles mean nothing. Rewards mean nothing without his beloved. 

“Aphrodite and Persephone were quite persuasive. Weren’t they, little owl?”

The world shivers and Akaashi steps out from behind a red  _ torii _ . Koutarou looks at them, speechless.

“I’m no longer an owl, Inari-sama,” they say quietly, eyes never leaving Koutarou. “I’m just me.”

“No,” Koutarou shakes his head, crossing to Akaashi in two large steps and taking them into his arms. “You’re  _ everything _ .”

Inari makes an amused sound and the pair turns toward them, holding hands tightly. “I’m afraid that I cannot promise you immortality—Akaashi has given his up and this is something I cannot undo—but you will be under my protection for the rest of your lives.”

Akaashi nods. “I understand, Inari-sama. We’re grateful.”

The god smiles and holds out their clawed hands. There is a lacquered box painted with cranes. “A final gift. From Aphrodite.”

“I am familiar with mysterious boxes gifted from the gods,” Akaashi says wryly.

“Yes, but I rather think you’ll enjoy this.”

Koutarou accepts the gift before Akaashi can refuse again. Inside is a simple thread of red silk upon a spool. 

“My protection, of course, will extend into your next life,” Inari says, “and the next, and so on.”

“Soulmates? They’re letting us be soulmates?” Akaashi asks. 

“As I said. Sometimes love conquers all. Including stubborn warrior goddesses.” And with that, Inari vanishes into the night, leaving them with a fond smile.

“Akaashi?” Koutarou bites at his lower lip. “It’s true? You’re here to stay?”

“Yes,” Akaashi says, brushing Koutarou’s hair out of his eyes and kissing him. “I’m home, Koutarou. If you’ll have me.”

“Always.”

* * *

Keiji feels like he’s been here before. He can smell olive trees and the sea on a warm summer wind. He’s dreamed of this place, with its yellowed marble and broken facades. He dreamt of flying through the columns and perching on a once stunning roof, surveying a city with less glass, less noise and asphalt.

He’s taking the lens cap off of his camera when a tour group crests the hill. One person in particular catches his eye, a boisterous, wide-shouldered man with golden eyes and hair spiked like the feathers of an owl. Keiji pauses, smiles, then makes his way over to the man, wondering why he feels like they’ve done this before.

Wondering why it feels like he’s home.

—END—

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> **Additional Notes:**
> 
> Since this was written in 2017 and had a word limit, it's not quite as fleshed out as I might do today, but it's still one of my favorite fics I've written. It plays fast and loose with history and mythology, but is set roughly during the Muromachi Era and the late Byzantine Period. I can't remember all of the research I did for this fic, but I fell down quite a few rabbit holes and I encourage you to do the same!
> 
> The Miya twins might have been slightly out of character, particularly Osamu. If I recall correctly, we had only just been introduced to him in the manga when I began writing this and Kita was barely present (which is why Konoha is the priest at Inari's temple).


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